


Assistance

by fluidstatic



Category: The Penumbra Podcast
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-10
Updated: 2018-03-10
Packaged: 2019-03-29 13:47:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13928358
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluidstatic/pseuds/fluidstatic
Summary: A small window into Nureyev's half of a certain vital rescue mission.





	Assistance

I despise the massive gun I'm holding, its alien lines and excessive capacity for destruction. It's clumsy and heavy and meant for someone who isn't shy about messy endings. Knives, by contrast, are elegant; they can get a man's attention without causing lasting damage or kill him outright, silent and efficient, all under control of a practiced hand. This rifle is nothing but pain and brutalism, a trigger too loose, a death too gruesome to imagine. 

"Assistant," Miasma says to me, her vertiginous face flickering over the mass of her so-called head. "I've had enough of this. Kill him, or give me the gun and I'll do it."

Her whole body is an ill fitting suit, her voice a bad copy of a bad copy. She's half lies, half sickness. It'll be a triumph to watch her die. 

Any moment now. Any. Moment. 

I press the plasma rifle to the back of Juno's left ear with as much menace as I can hope to feign. His head rolls forward and to the right, and I see his profile in the dim light. His eyes have fallen closed, his lips parting slightly. I can feel his pulse pounding against the barrel of the rifle, see his eyelids shiver with a long repressed burst of emotion as he lets his eyes roll back, waiting for the blast of this gun to erase him. I feel all the air fall out of him in a rush as his eyebrows twitch upward in supplication, and his lips barely curl around the shape of my name.

Nureyev, he does not say. 

(Is he cursing me for leaving him alone, or praying I'll pull through for him at the last moment? He's made his agnosticism abundantly clear; is he trying to believe in me, regardless?) 

Surrender would look beautiful on him, truly, if he wasn't giving up for the wrong reasons. He isn't afraid; he's saying his Now I Lay Me Downs; he's got one foot in the river Styx already. I'd roll my eyes at his willingness to die if I weren't terrified, and transfixed by his creased tired face, and thinking of the worst possible mistake: If my finger slips his ludicrously beautiful, absurdly overwrought head will pop like a grape. 

No. Focus. Breathe. Steady. 

I flex my hand, steady my arm. Juno's eyelids shiver again. If the gun weren't loaded, it would all be terribly erotic. The thought disgusts me; I'm dominating him in the worst possible way, forcing him to trust me with his life without giving him the terms first. It's obscene. 

If I'm lucky, he'll forgive me for this mess in a moment. 

My body swings left, straightens, and a laser goes through the other assistant's brow. My body snaps forward again, and a second shot goes through Miasma's chest. I let the gun fall to my side. Juno has thrown himself forward, prone on the filthy floor, arms crossed over the back of his head; now he rolls onto his back and opens his eyes, widens them at me, and says without a hint of nerves, 

"That was cold, killing the two of them so fast." 

"Apologies, Juno, but I didn't think diplomacy would be quick enough for this particular rescue operation." 

I throw down Miasma's mask and attempt to look heroic. 

His eyes are so bright with adrenaline and his voice so even I could swear he was playing at his prayers a moment ago, and he knew I was there. But then the glitter in his eyes turns into a wide open hallelujah, his face beaming with You came Back, you came back, Nureyev, Nureyev. 

I want to kiss him until he laughs, mumble his name into his mouth until he can taste how sweet and full of music it is. But he's not scrambling to be held, and I dare not presume. 

"If you'd like to swoon and fall into my arms, now would be an excellent time." 

He's looking me dead in the eye as he sits up, a slight sneer blooming on his face as he shoves his relief down into his gut. He licks his lips, stretches his jaw, looks away, flicks his eyes back to my mouth with an exasperated expression. He wants me, drunk on his brush with death, and he's embarrassed.

"Don't get a fat head about it," he mutters. He means Thank You, but I'm far too much of a professional to kiss you half as hard as I'd like, all right? 

"My head is perfectly sized, and we both know it," I retort, meaning You are impossible, but have it your way, Dahlia my love. 

He rolls his eyes. I memorize the gesture, the speed of it and the tilt of his neck, because there's a sharp gleam of affection in it and I want to use it on him later. Maybe he'll understand the intent of it better than any of my various breadcrumbs. 

We'll figure out how to talk to each other eventually.


End file.
